Big O: Dominus Spiritus
by Moral Mark
Summary: One-hundred years ago, the Seraph of Creation, Venus, raised her hand of judgement and cast her fate on Paradigm City, on mankind. Only now will the mysteries of the past be answered. (My idea about Season 3)
1. The Tale of Venus

One hundred years ago, the world of humanity was a devoid, soulless existence. A dark age of sin, fear, and hate, humanity condemned itself into this body of a past forgotten, punished for its arrogance and misdeeds lifetimes ago. And at the heart of this world was Paradigm City, both the center of this life and the prison of this amnesia. People walked through the streets with lost dreams, lost memories, lost souls, with only the will of survival keeping them alive.  
  
Monsters and gods alike roamed free as a result, fighting amidst the arena of Paradigm City, fighting for lordship and supremacy over the flock of man. Feared or revered, these gods constantly decided the fate of the city, the fate of humanity. And for a time, order was maintained.  
  
But memories faithfully lost are memories lost in faith, and mankind forgotten in faith can be easily broken. Evil in the form of pride, power, and lust began to manifest into the form of human, in the form of white - the Anti-Christ. Paradigm City, and indeed the world, began to approach their doom as the Anti-Christ, - this false shadow of a man - tried to re- create the flock of man in his own image. And one hundred years ago, this devil in white almost succeeded.  
  
It was one hundred years ago, on the eve of humanity's demise, when she came.  
  
Queen of all Kings. Lady of all Lords. Dreams, memories, and spirits in gaven form. The bird whose wings were plucked, who shed all of her feathers and became the god it once was before she evolved into the bird. The bird who once decided the fate of humanity, and whose time had arrived where she had to decide again.  
  
The Angel of Judgement. The Seraph of Creation.  
  
Big Venus.  
  
On the eve of man's demise, the Seraph Venus rose from the heavens and cleansed the world, cleansed Paradigm City, and cast the Anti-Christ back into nothing. Enraged at the despair of man since her last coming, the Seraph Venus was ready to cast humanity and its past forever into the sea of oblivion when Reason, the negotiator of humanity itself stopped before she raised her final judgment.  
  
Reason saw the potential in humanity - the faith, the soul, the life. Reason spoke to Venus the heart of man, negotiating that it was the heart, above all, that was the defining quality of mankind's existence. And in spite of past transgressions, in spite of the past of the forgotten, it was the heart that gave the past meaning. Because of the heart, the past, no matter the depth of darkness or the stream of the lost, was the foundation of faith, and thus should not be cast aside.  
  
That was when the Seraph Venus raised her hand of judgment. That was when she cast her fate on Paradigm City, on the world. On humanity.  
  
That was how the Modern Age was saved. That is why we give thanks to our past. That is why we cherish every single moment of our rich history.  
  
That is why we should never forget the way we were then, or else we lose the way we are now.  
  
-The Tale of Venus, adapted from the Book of the Modern Deus Church. 


	2. Act 1: Coming Home Part 1 A

Act 1 - Coming Home, Part 1  
  
My name is Roger Smith. I was once an explorer out in the far reaches of the known world. My legs were my drive, my hands were my tools, and my head was my compass. Both an expedition intelligencer negotiating with all forms of life and an armored military pilot negotiating with all forms of death,, my fellow comrades and I took into the darkness and bolded the unknown, the unexplored, the once unreachable.  
  
That was a year a go.  
  
Now I wander the endless lands of the frontier. I travel through lands already unraveled, I trek through trails already trodden, and I pace through the streets of towns in infancy. The further west I go, the more barren the land is below me. The further east I go, the more barren the people are around me..  
  
That's simply the way it is in Paradigm Nation, a union founded on amnesic history, a spotty past. A hundred years ago mankind received redemption, a second chance by the grace of the Seraph. Or so they say - most believe it, though some hold a skeptic eye. Either way, the history and memories of the time then and before were preserved, albeit the mystery and questions that exist up to this very day. Doesn't matter. People live with the existence they have today and with the past behind them, and they are content and pleased.  
  
No other place is the perfect example of this than the heart of the Nation - Paradigm City. The City of Amnesia, the epicenter of humanity.  
  
Paradigm City. It's been a while since I was here.  
  
-------------------------  
  
"Yo, pickup!"  
  
A surly, red-headed waitress approached the kitchen window and picked up a tray of food. "Yo, I got your three orders on here."  
  
The waitress glanced at the tray for a moment, noticing a plate missing from her tray.  
  
"Hey Pauly, ya forgot my English muffin!"  
  
"Ah, hell, right," said the cook behind the other side of the window, through the steam from the grill range. Plopping a small saucer onto the waitress's tray, he dropped two halves of a buttered English muffin on top.  
  
The woman scowled at the cook briefly before picking up the tray and making her way towards the front counter. Making her way past several customers waiting patiently in their stools with cups of coffee, she stopped short of the end of the row, where a petite brunette, sporting an elegant red business dress softly sipped a cup of tea. A briefcase stood next to her feet below.  
  
"Here ya go, dear, order of English muffin," the waitress said, placing the plate before the woman. "Ya sure ya don't want anything else?"  
  
"No, I'm fine, thank you," hummed the brunette dryly.  
  
"Ya sure?" asked the waitress.  
  
"You always ask every time I'm here."  
  
"And you always say the same thing. Gotta make sure - skinny girl like you's gotta eat, get some meat in your bones."  
  
The brunette sipped her tea. "I'm perfectly all right with what I have now. Thank you again."  
  
"Well, just the same, if ya want Pauly to fry somethin' up for ya, just let me know. I'll get ya squared away." Smiling, the waitress continued on her way. The brunette tipped her very well every time she was here, so the waitress was happy to oblige.  
  
The brunette picked a half of her muffin with her delicate fingers and took a small bite, chewing and swallowing calmly before taking another bite. She savored another sip of tea while subconsciously drumming the counter with her free hand, as if playing the piano.  
  
". . . would you like more coffee, sir?" the brunette heard the waitress say, her tray replaced with a coffee pitcher.  
  
"No, I'll be fine. Almost done here," coolly replied the man in a relaxed voice, his face behind a newspaper.  
  
"Okay. I'll be back with your bill, then."  
  
The waitress began to leave when she turned back to her customer again, noticing the black bomber jacked resting on the back of his chair.  
  
"Hey, you one of them robot suit pilots or whatever?" asked the waitress.  
  
"Tech pilot?"  
  
"Yeah, you one them guys?"  
  
"Was," returned the black-haired man, lowering his newspaper.  
  
"Really? My brother, he was in a military, he tried out to be one of those pilots. Didn't get in 'cuz he bombed one of his tests during training. I tell ya, bein' a Tech pilot's real tough. Though I bet ya saw a lot of action, huh?"  
  
"I've seen my share."  
  
The waitress grinned. "So, first time in the PC? Visiting?"  
  
"Nah," said the former pilot, "it's just been a while since I've been in Paradigm."  
  
"Ya sure ya don't want any coffee?"  
  
"I'm pretty sure. Like I said, I'm going to head out pretty -"  
  
The diner doors kicked open with a loud boom, and two masked figures entered the dining room. One shot out a pounding bang from his pistol, while the other swung the point of his pistol around the diner, threatening the patrons with his aim.  
  
"All right, nobody move, nobody move!" barked the first robber. "Let's make this quick, let's make this simple. Empty out your pockets, purses, bags, lunch pails, whatever. Empty everything out on the table and put your hands up in the air. Do this and nobody gets hurt."  
  
"You try somethin' and we blast a hole in your forehead!" shrieked the second.  
  
As quickly as the robbers came, the patrons quickly unloaded their pockets. Some dumped the contents of their purses out, others threw out their wallets onto the table. The few slow ones received a strike from a pistol butt, particularly by the second robber who was decidedly more twitchy and nerve-ridden. Only the black-haired pilot and the brunette didn't place anything on the counter, though their hands were slowly raised in the air. The brunette tried to cover her briefcase with her legs.  
  
The second robber noticed this and rapidly approached the brunette.  
  
"Hey lady, you heard us! Everything you got, on the counter, NOW!"  
  
The brunette faced the robber. "I don't have anything," she said dryly.  
  
"Yeah? And that briefcase?"  
  
"Nothing you need," said the brunette with a dry tone again.  
  
"My ass. Empty it out,' barked the robber.  
  
"Can you hurry this up?" replied the brunette in an almost monotone voice, "because I really do have to go to work very soon, and -"  
  
WHAP. The second robber backhanded the brunette across her right cheek. She reeled back from the slap, but oddly enough sat back up again, with only barely managing a soft yelp instead of a cry. And though there was a red mark across her cheek, not even a drop welled up in her eyes.  
  
The second robber didn't really much notice. "Empty the briefcase now, or get another one on the left to match your right."  
  
"Like I said," began the brunette, "it is nothing you -"  
  
The robber began to raise his hand with the pistol and slap her left cheek when something suddenly gripped his wrist and abruptly twisted it behind his back.  
  
"Urk!" moaned the robber. His pistol dropped to the ground abruptly.  
  
"Not very gentleman-like, are we?" a voice said from behind him.  
  
The black-haired pilot, gripping the robber's hand from behind, punched the robber's kidneys and kicked his knees in. As the robber swiftly dropped to his knees, an elbow slammed onto his forehead before he could yelp, rendering him unconscious.  
  
The first robber, coming around from the other corner of the diner with a plastic bag of wallets in hand, noticed this scene and abruptly raised his pistol as he dashed towards the pilot.  
  
"HEY! YOU! WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU -"  
  
Before he could cross the brunette, a red elbow slammed into his jaw in mid- shriek. As he was reeling backward from the blow, the brunette knocked the robber's pistol away, grabbed his hand, and pulled it so that she threw him to the floor. The first robber too, was rendered unconscious.  
  
"Hmm. Got a little fight in you, huh?" said the black-haired pilot, smiling warmly at the brunette.  
  
Scores of applause filled the diner, the patrons clapping their hands in awe, shock, or relief. Either way, they were applauding at the scene that took place before them.  
  
The brunette turned to the surly waitress, who was also applauding at the moment. "Aren't you going to call the police?"  
  
"Nah," replied the waitress. "Pauly and Johnny, they'll take care of these fools, which reminds - hey, Pauly, Johnny, where've you two been?"  
  
Hearing the shouts, two large cooks walked out of the kitchen.  
  
"Yo, man, I was gonna go in there and whoop ass and stuff," stuttered Johnny, "but, but-"  
  
"Hey, Linda, all we got was bats and kitchen knives and stuff," Pauly finished. "Those guys, they was packin' heat. We couldn't do nothin'."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Go take care of these two idiots on the floor. Teach 'em not to mess with us at the Daily Egg."  
  
The two cooks dragged the robbers into the kitchen and out the back door, the waitress occasionally kicking their unconscious bodies on their way out. Slowly, as another waitress handed out the wallets from the plastic bag to their respective owners, the diner slowly dulled back into a normal atmosphere.  
  
"I should go," said the petite brunette. The former pilot couldn't help notice her elegant fingers as she slipped a couple money bills onto the counter when Linda, the waitress stopped her.  
  
"Nah, don't you worry about it, darling. This one's on us."  
  
"It's all right. I came in here for an English muffin and tea, that's all."  
  
"But -"  
  
"Thank you," the brunette said cordially while she picked up her brief case and made her way out the door.  
  
"Wait a minute hold -" the pilot began, stopping the brunette short of the door.  
  
The brunette turned around to face the black-haired man, into his unshaven yet oddly clean-cut jaw, at his eyebrows, unkempt yet strangely neat hair, and deep black eyes. With a fairly expressionless look, she said, "And thank you, sir, for helping me."  
  
Managing to crack a small grin, she waved at the man as she pushed the diner door open and stepped out into the street.  
  
The former pilot couldn't help but notice her soft, elegantly young features on her face as she turned away, or her petite body as she paced away from him, or the way the brunette's short hair blew gently behind her head as the outside wind blew softly.  
  
He couldn't help it. He exited the diner and chased after her.  
  
"Hey, miss, please wait for a moment," he said, as he approached the brunette. She stopped in her tracks and faced him.  
  
"May I at least have the privilege of knowing the name of the fair lady I helped just now?" the former pilot said coolly.  
  
The brunette cocked her head slightly, though remaining expressionless. "And what might be the noble knight's name, the one who decided to help said princess?"  
  
The black-haired man extended his right hand. "The name is Roger Smith, ma'am. And it was of no consequence or burden whatsoever."  
  
The brunette extended her right hand, at which Roger gently held and kissed softly. She couldn't help but crack a very small grin again.  
  
"Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, Roger Smith," said the brunette. She turned around and began making her way towards the intersection.  
  
"Still didn't catch your name," Roger said.  
  
The brunette stopped in mid-step again. "Well, if you insist - you can call me Dorothy for now."  
  
"Would it be too intrusive if I asked when can see each other again?"  
  
"Maybe," said Dorothy dryly. "We'll meet again sometime soon, I'm sure."  
  
She raised her hand out into the street, hailing a taxi. "But in the meantime, I have to go to work."  
  
----------------------  
  
". . . yes . . . yes sir. All the official services that I will render are on the contract. Officially, I will not be involved any other part of the operation other than the negotiation process. Yes. . . .yes . . . . yes, I know, which is why your people should be making your tracks as clean and anonymous as possible. Be aware that your actions are illegitimate, and that I am a citizen - I legally must report all information I know about you to the police.  
  
No, no, that's not what I'm saying. What I'm saying is that any time you communicate to me or my firm, any forms of correspondence - yes, yes, even packages - yes sir, keep it anonymous."  
  
CLICK bzzzzzzt.  
  
"All right, now that our communication line is scrambled, let's touch on what's between the lines on the contract. Your fee is an additional 25% the official contract rate for off the books services my firm and I render. Yes sir. Yes . . .. yes . . .. yes, that's correct we - yes, yes, we have the logistics of our end of the operation planned out. Yes, yes. Let us take care of it. Uh huh . . .. yes . . . uh, huh . . no. Now that part, no. My off-books work I keep to myself. Sorry, part of the conract.  
  
"The completion time on my end is by midnight tonight. So, are we agreed, then?  
  
". . . . thank you. Thank you. It's been a pleasure doing business with you."  
  
CLICK.  
  
A black-suit figure approached the executive desk, where a yellow-suit man just placed the phone on its hook. He propped his feet onto the desk, leaning back on his chair.  
  
"So Beck, what's the word?" asked the black suit.  
  
The golden-blonde Beck grinned wide, chuckling before he said, "It's on. We're going live tonight." 


	3. Act 1: Coming Home Part 1 B

Paradigm City. The city with a life of its own. The city of sleepless nights, and relentless days. For a city born from mystery and saved from apocalypse, it is nevertheless one that is full of life, spirit, and history.  
  
It's been years since I left the city for unexplored horizons. The look of the city has changed, but Paradigm is still the same as she was before. Like people, Paradigm may get makeovers, but her heart and spirit is still the same old beast no matter how hard she tries to hide it.  
  
And like the city, true Paradigmers never change. Especially her elderly.  
  
Norman Burg is a true Paradigmer as far as I can remember. Since I was a child he was always that interesting mechanic on East Village with an unusually polite tongue and a heart of gold. Every so often I visited him in his garage, he always had something to say, from the way the City is now versus how it was back then, to his politely furious discussions on how the latest game went, and often imparted advice when I needed it. He even took me in during some of the more difficult times in my orphaned youth.  
  
No matter how many times Paradigm put on her makeup, no matter how many new buildings rose or how many old buildings fell, Norman's character did not change. Sure, the geezer may have grayed and his mechanic hands toughened over the years. He was the polite old mechanic when I first met him and he was still the polite old mechanic when I left the city.  
  
He's the reason why I am back on these streets.  
  
It's been years, almost a decade since I last saw him. During my years in the expeditions we barely kept contact, and even before I left the military I haven't heard word or news from him. So it was quite interesting when one day, staying in one of the desert boom towns on the west edge of the wasteland, that I received a fairly cryptic letter from the old man, one that he had been trying to send to me for years.  
  
The main words on the letter - "Your family inheritance. Come home, it's time to claim it."  
  
Piquing my interest with questions after questions that came to my mind, I simply had to oblige to the letter. And so with whatever belongings I had on my back, I made my journey east, back through the wastelands and new- found cities, through the boom-towns and fast-evolving roads, back to the city limits of Paradigm.  
  
Back to the PC. Back to the place I called, for lack of a better word, home.  
  
-------------------------  
  
VROOM.  
  
Drumming the steering wheel for a moment, the old man with the eye-patch sighed a "hmmm" before tapping the gas pedal on the floor again. The car roaring another vroom before letting the pedal go, the old man rubbed his chin before stepping out of the driver seat, making his way to the front of the car. The hood was popped open, and the engine inside was purring mildly with intervals of soft clicking.  
  
It was the clicking that was bothering the old man.  
  
Picking up a slender socket wrench he scratched the back of his head with the tool as he scanned the engine before him, watching each intricate part move in near-perfect synchronization. He continued to rub his chin with his free hand until he raised an eyebrow, finally locating the source of the clicking which had been bothering him at the moment. He raised his wrench to fix the appropriate source.  
  
WHACK.  
  
A quick strike to the drive belt axel later, the clicking sound disappeared, and the purring of the car reduced to an even softer hum.  
  
"Still haven't lost touch, eh, Norman?"  
  
The old man stood up straight from his hunch, almost instantly recognizing that cool, cold voice that spoke behind him.  
  
"Sometimes a shock to the system is what's needed to keep things in line," replied the old man with an accent. "And, sometimes a shock to the system is what's needed to get things in motion . . ." the old man turned around to face his guest, who was casually leaning around the garage entrance, "Roger Smith."  
  
The black-haired man grinned back at Norman.  
  
"My, you've certainly grown up," said the old man.  
  
"And you're still that same old mechanic I've come to know and love since I was a little kid," Roger replied.  
  
"'M not old, Mr. Smith. I prefer to call myself 'seasoned.'"  
  
Roger couldn't help but let out a soft chuckle. The old man couldn't help but return with a soft laugh. Roger couldn't help but top that off. Within moments, both burst into laughter as they approached and patted each other on the back.  
  
"Good to see you again Norman," Roger said joyously, "it's been a long time."  
  
"No doubt, Mr. Smith," Norman said.  
  
"Still got your manners, don't ya?"  
  
"I was beginning to think you'd never come back."  
  
"Hey, with a letter from an old friend, I couldn't resist," Roger said, "Couldn't have the heart to leave you hanging, you know?"  
  
"I've been trying to contact you for over year," said Norman.  
  
"Mail trouble," Roger replied. "Been moving around a lot for a while."  
  
"Understandable."  
  
Roger glanced at the classic, black sedan Norman was working on and whistled. "Nice ride. Who's it for?"  
  
"Actually, it's mine, sort of," Norman said.  
  
"Man, Griffon IV ten-cylinder turbo," Roger glanced at the rest of the sedan's body, "with original frame and body. These things are rare, almost museum relics. Lucky find."  
  
"Well, there's an interesting story behind it. I'll tell you later."  
  
Norman snatched a rag from his work-rack and wiped his greasy-black hands, making his way back to the driver's seat and pulling out the key from the ignition.  
  
"Eaten?" asked Norman.  
  
"Yeah, earlier," Roger replied.  
  
"When did you arrive?"  
  
"Early this morning. Grabbed lunch at a diner, then set myself up in a motel nearby before I came here."  
  
"There was no need for that. I was going set you up back home with me."  
  
"Thought that -"  
  
"Shouldn't have given it a second thought," Norman said. "Come, let's go. I'll fix you dinner tonight."  
  
----------------  
  
". . . and so I was thinking about the heat-sink problem today, looking around at the specs, when I discovered that it wasn't the material we were using for the heat sink, but rather how the heat sink responded to the fluid we were using for the process. Apparently, super-nitride has an effect on Titanium-based carbon-polymers similar to water against brass- steel components. So I was thinking that - that -"  
  
The over-the-hill, ash brown haired engineer stopped in mid-sentence, turning to his young assistant walking by his side.  
  
"Is there something bothering you, Dorothy?"  
  
The brunette said, "No, not really."  
  
"Want to talk about?"  
  
"I'm fine, Dr. Elger."  
  
"You've been awfully quiet today," The middle-aged engineer, Elger then grinned. "Then again, you're usually quiet anyway, but still . . . "  
  
Their voices echoed throughout the scarcely occupied parking lot, as a cool breeze swept through the open field of concrete and lampposts.  
  
"Just had . . . an interesting day today," Dorothy replied, keeping her eyes straight ahead, briefcase in-hand.  
  
"Heard about the attempted robbery in the diner earlier today. Listen, those types of experiences can be traumatizing, and you can't keep that pent up inside you-"  
  
"It's not that, necessarily," Dorothy said.  
  
A brief silence passed between the two as they made their way towards Elger's humble compact car.  
  
"Need a ride?" asked Elger.  
  
"I'll be all right. I'll take the sub," Dorothy remarked.  
  
"Listen, I want you to go take tomorrow off."  
  
Dorothy looked at the engineer. "But I'm fine. I'm not ill or -"  
  
"You're a brilliant engineer, Miss Wayneright, just like your father. However, you're also young, and beautiful if I may say so myself." Elger opened the trunk of his compact, unloading the two cases he had on his arms. "Take the day off. Kick back, relax, go do what young people do, like catching a movie or . . . I dunno, hitting those night clubs or whatever."  
  
Elger slammed his trunk shut and made his way to the driver's seat of the car. "People need to relax and have fun, too. Don't waste your life away on work alone. Bad for the spirit."  
  
Entering the driver's seat and closing the door, he rolled the windows down. "And once you get back, we'll attack that heat-sink problem. Good night, Dorothy."  
  
Dorothy waved expressionlessly back at him. "Good night, Dr. Elger."  
  
Watching Elger's car hum to life and drive off towards the parking lot exit, Dorothy made her way further across the lot, towards the chain-linked gates, towards the subway entrance nearby. She stopped suddenly when her ears picked up the sound of another car roaring to life, followed by tires squelching against asphalt.  
  
A quick glance to her right showed Elger's car coming to a screeching halt when a yellow van blocked off the exit. Four figures hopped out of the van and attempted to drag Dr. Elger out his seat, while trying to break into the trunk. The trunk popped open easily, though a few growls for Elger showed he wasn't giving way as readily. The one attempting to drag him out seemed to punch Dr. Elger before opening the door from inside.  
  
"Dr. Elger!" Dorothy cried, instinctively dashing towards the scene. But hardly before she made two steps -  
  
WHAP.  
  
A cold, hard object struck the back of her head. Milliseconds later, Dorothy's vision faded black as she fell onto the cold asphalt floor.  
  
-------------  
  
"THIS is your home?"  
  
Roger couldn't help but drop his jaw when he stepped off the elevator and into the main living room. The sprawling penthouse before him was nothing short of glamorous, as the seemingly giant living room was illuminated by soft yellow light, and by the dim-blue of the evening skyline shining through the windows that walled half the entire living room.  
  
"Entirely way too big for me, if I say so myself," Norman replied.  
  
"How long have you had this place?"  
  
"Not very long, actually."  
  
"This is really your home?"  
  
"Yes, this, and the entire brownstone below is mine. Sort of, anyway. Interesting story behind it - I'll explain a little later."  
  
Roger followed Norman through several doors into the kitchen. He spent the last forty-five minutes with Norman in his Griffon catching up on old times (it would have been shorter had it not been for Paradigm's rush-hour traffic). Mistaking the brownstone as an apartment complex, it wasn't until Roger entered the elevator (noticing that there seemed to be more buttons on the panel than there were floors for the building) and went up to the top floor that he realized the entire building was one giant house.  
  
The smell of cooked beef filled Roger's nostrils.  
  
"Cooked early?" Roger asked.  
  
"I always cook early. That way, when I come home, I don't have to spend time over the oven - I can just eat." Norman motioned Roger to take a seat at the kitchen table. "Please, take a seat," Norman said, as he set out two sets of bowls and spoons onto the table.  
  
Obliging, Roger rested his rear on top of one of the wooden chairs while Norman set a warmed pot from the oven onto the table. With a ladle, he poured several helpings of stew into both their bowls.  
  
"Mmm, beef stew?" Roger remarked.  
  
"Beef stew," Norman replied, as he sat himself down. "Go ahead, you must be famished."  
  
Moments passed as the two dug into their bowls, the soft chinking of silverware and bowl the only sounds breaking the silence. It wasn't until when Roger set his spoon down that broke the air.  
  
"Norman, there's something I've been meaning to ask you," Roger said.  
  
"The beef stew?" Norman said, "You see, most people usually use a lot of salt and mix to flavor their stew. I prefer to use the natural flavor of the meat mixed with a dash of oregano to -"  
  
"No, not that," Roger interrupted. "It's about the letter you sent me." He unfolded a sheet of paper from his bomber-jacket pocket and began to quote a line from the letter. " 'Come home. Claim your family inheritance, and claim what is rightfully yours.'" Roger shifted his eyes towards Norman. "What do you mean by 'family inheritance?' Did you know my parents? How did you come to know all this?"  
  
Norman let out a deep sigh, resting his spoon on the top edge of his bowl. Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he took in a slightly deep breath, exhaling and preparing for what he was about to say.  
  
"Roger Smith, around the time . . . your parents died, I made two promises -"  
  
"You knew them?" Roger exclaimed. "All those years I've known you . . ."  
  
"One of those promises," Norman continued, "I made to your father before he died - to make sure you were safe, and that you were at the care of good hands."  
  
Roger's eyes widened in shock, taken aback at the words that his old friend just spoke. It was after moments of silence that passed between them that Roger managed to muster enough words to ask his next question.  
  
". . . and the second one? What was the second promise you made to them?"  
  
Norman wiped his dry mouth with his napkin again. "The second promise I made to them was shortly after their death - to protect, maintain, and keep safe what is rightfully yours, what you should have been given when you were at the right age."  
  
"My inheritance," Roger said affirmatively. "But what is it supposed to be?"  
  
Norman grinned, spreading his arms openly. "This. ALL of this."  
  
--------------------------  
  
"Level 1, completed. And I can assure you, with virtually no ego, that it was executed in clock-work precision. How can I - how sure am I? Listen, you don't fight in the wastelands for several years and not learn how to tell a bad operation from a good one.  
  
Darkness.  
  
"Yes . . . .uh huh . . . . .right . . . .I understand your concerns. However, let me put them to rest - I can professionally say that at this point, our assets are well protected and . . . yes, that's exactly what I'm trying to say. Right, of course.  
  
Dorothy opened her eyes to great difficulty. Something pressed against her eyelids as she tried to open them - cloth, blindfold. She creaked her eyes open, but only the dark of the blindfold lay before her.  
  
"All right. Do whatever you have to do. Consult. I'll wait patiently."  
  
She wriggled her arms. They were bound behind her, locked together around the back of the chair behind her. Her legs tried to kick alive, but they were each bound still by something, probably to the legs of the chair she sat on. Dorothy tried to open her mouth, tried to say something - however, her lips were pressed tightly together before she cracked them open. Her word and syllables came out as an inaudible "mmmph." Duct tape -  
  
"So, you've finally come through," said a voice before her.  
  
"Mmph," Dorothy replied. She decided "mmphs" probably wouldn't get her message across, so she stopped trying to speak shortly.  
  
"Don't worry about your boss. Doctor Elger is right next to you, and he's being a good boy, doing just fine."  
  
The man's sneerish, snobbish voice seemed to echo around her - she was in a warehouse.  
  
"Listen, let me tell you the rules, plain and simple - no heroics. Just sit still, be quiet, and do what we ask you, and this will be over very soon. The faster your employer acts, and the faster we handle the negotiations, the sooner you'll be out of here."  
  
Bloop bloop. Soft beeping.  
  
"And until then, Miss Wayneright, I'll make sure you are treated respectfully. Excuse me."  
  
A set of footsteps began to pace around the hall, each clacking step echoing around her.  
  
"Is it ready? Are your demands final? Good, good. Time for stage two."  
  
Silence.  
  
A set of beeping.  
  
Impatient foot tapping on the ground . . .  
  
Sigh of impatience. Then, words . . . .  
  
". . . now, Paradigm Capital . . . .here are our demands . . ."  
  
--------------------------------  
  
B16 . . . . B17 . . . B18 . . . B19 . . . .  
  
"You see, shortly after both your parents died - you were still too young - I received a contract post-mortem and access to contents in a highly- secure safety deposit box." Norman stood in the elevator next to Roger, patiently looking up at the floor indicator. "The contract was simple - to maintain, preserve, and protect all of given properties until the time arrives that the rightful inheritor reaches a legal age."  
  
"You mean, when I was twenty-one?" Roger added.  
  
B22 . . . B23 . . . B24 . . . B25 . . .  
  
"That is correct, Roger," Norman affirmed. "However, you left for the frontier and the expeditions before then, and disappeared off the face of the earth. I almost thought you wouldn't come back and claim your assets."  
  
B28 . . . B29 . . . B30 . . .  
  
"So what exactly is down here anyway?" Roger asked.  
  
For the first time since the somber conversation started, Norman grinned. "The definition of a man is not on the surface, but deep inside wherein lies the heart of truth."  
  
Roger eyed Norman for a moment. "And who said that?"  
  
B33 . . . B34 . . . B35.  
  
The elevator doors slid open.  
  
"This way, sir."  
  
Norman lead Roger into the dark, open chasm, dimly lit only by soft white lights strewn across the edges of a narrow walkway or bridge. The two made their way across the walkway until Norman stopped short in front of a control panel located halfway down.  
  
"Er, Norman, where the hell are we?" Roger asked.  
  
Without a word, Norman flipped on several switches on the control panel as light rapidly began to flash on, piercing the ominous darkness. One after the other giant floodlights illuminated the chasm so brightly, so suddenly that Roger had to shield his eyes with his arm.  
  
It wasn't until all the lights were turned on, until Roger's eyes adjusted to the light, and until he lowered his arm, when he finally pierced into the eyes of the "heart of truth" Norman was talking about.  
  
A giant, black, cold, scour face pierced its blank gray eyes back at Roger.  
  
"Wh-what the-"  
  
The light revealed what the darkness hid, reflecting off the black shine of the gigantic golem-like figure standing boldly in the enormous chasm, glistening what seemed to be a ruby-red crown resting above its forehead. Roger didn't look down at the rest of the metal giant's body yet, but he already figured -  
  
The mechanical titan spoke power. And it spoke volumes through the cold silence around him.  
  
"Norman," Roger uttered finally, "What . . . is this thing?"  
  
"Your Birth-right," Norman answered. Your inheritance."  
  
*To be continued*  
  
NEXT:  
  
Actt 2 - Coming Home, Part 2 


End file.
